Helen of Troy

[ Helen of Troy ]

When the others arrived, we were, as mother said, dying for the eggs to hatch. I don't think so. When the others arrived, the fact is, we were all a little dead. Our lips were dry. And before? We read passages from the picture books, we told secrets, we sang, while we finished off a plate of cherries, how the chickens must first be plucked, and then broiled. When the others arrived, we agreed, that we mustn't look at the eggs. We must be careful, we'd whisper, as the evening grew thick with the scent of sawdust, or the eggs will ask us to dance or, worse, clip our wings and beg for our forgiveness. Mother didn't think so. A hatch of people arrive, when the eggs have been arranged into more complicated patterns, and point their beaks down our throats. There is the sound of shoveling in my yard. We will wait for news of the extinction. Mother, stunned by our restlessness, has gathered us to bed. We are always thinking about the eggs, as we wait for the others to arrive, and it has become impossible for me to say how certain things happen.
* * * * *